


The Phantom and the Tenor

by amazing_Hedgehog_girl



Category: Phantom of the Opera, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Multi, Other, Sorry Not Sorry, Still not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazing_Hedgehog_girl/pseuds/amazing_Hedgehog_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Phantom of the Opera/Sherlock cross over AU. </p><p>John is Christine, Sherlock is the Phantom, Mrs. Hudson owns the theater, and Lestrade is Bouquet. </p><p>Shit gets real, real quick When John shows up to replace Anderson as the lead Tenor.</p><p>Sidenote: This is written in parts, not actual chapters, so all my chapters are ridiculously short. Bear with me, this could go for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More coming soon :)

“John! John Watson!” the man in question turned and scanned the throng of people milling about by the doors of the theater. It took a moment but he recognized the short rotund man hurrying toward him, “Stamford, good god man its good to see you!” he thrust out his hand and Stamford clasped it in his own. Stamford pushed up his glasses and made to guide John through the crowd, “It was quite a shock to get your telegram I’ll have you know. I though you were off being an Italian opera star and I find out you’ve been in India being shot at by the Mughals. What happened man?”

John cleared his throat and shortened his stride some to keep from stepping on his guides heels, “I had a bit of a problem. Being an Italian bit player doesn’t really pay the bills, and then of course there was Mary to think about.” Stamford stopped dead and turned around, “You mean you… took her back, after all that?” John clenched his fists reflexively and tried not to grind his teeth, “Yes. Of course I did.” Stamford opened his mouth to reply, but something in Watson’s face stopped him and he turned on his hell to resume scuttling through the people, “Come along then, Mrs. Hudson is waiting for you. I dare say half the company’s turned out to see if you’re really up to scratch.” John’s heart dropped to his stomach and he willed himself to calm down. “Come on Watson,” he told himself “you faced down the Mughals with the East India Company, this audition will be a walk in the park.”

Following Stamford through the theater got easier once he was out of the crush of bodies, for a man his size, he was surprisingly fast, and quiet on his feet, John speculated it was from spending most of his time up in the rigging trying to look down the conspicuously scandalous blouses the theater company put on all of it’s lesser female characters. The pounding in his chest got much less pronounced the more he saw,The London Opera was much less grand than it’s exterior would have one believe. It’s wall paper was peeling and the gas lights on the walls frequently sputtered. The wood was splintery and there was a pervasive scent of something… odd. “Hashish,” Watson thought “right, cake walk.”

It seemed to take ages of winding through a small labyrinth of hall ways and leaning doorway before Stamford finally brought him to the stage. John’s knees instantly seemed to turn to water, it seemed the whole company had turned out… and they were all staring directly at him. But most terrifying of all was the figure in the center of it all who turned when Stamford addressed her as “Mrs. Hudson”.

She was clad all in rich purple velvet and wore no hat, but instead an ornament of black feathers pinned carefully to her slightly graying coif, she smiled and her teeth had yellowed with age but her eyes were sharp and hawk like as she assessed him, “John Watson, I presume?” John’s knees were weak and his mouth went dry, “Yes ma’am.” She stood, leaning heavily on her walking stick, “You’re here to be our new Tenor?” John, unable to speak, nodded.

Mrs. Hudson was so close to him, he could smell the faintest traces of rose water, “Very well, John… Sing for us.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds his voice, with a little mysterious help.

“S-s-s-sing for you? Right now? I-I-I mean I can but…” John stood with his arms behind his back doing his best to hide the tremor that surged through his body. Mrs. Hudson’s sharp eyes seemed like they were staring through him, searching for something, something important; and not finding it. She sighed and slowly turned to limp away from him, “I’m sorry Mr. Watson. I’m afraid I’ve run out of time for this nonsense. If you cannot sing for my little company, I’m afraid I cannot let you on the stage.” A few individuals in the crowd snickered uncharitably and Mrs. Hudson turned to address a tall gaunt man with the most singularly unpleasant look about him John had ever seen, “Anderson, you’ll have to do, front and center. We’ll take act one from the top.”

Like bees in a bust hive cast and crew scurried to their appointed places, leaving John standing there like an idiot when suddenly… there was music. Haltingly at first, but then as it drew attention, more clearly. The most beautiful rendition of Leicester’s solo from Elisabetta that John had ever heard.

The music reverberated in his chest and the quaking in his body ceased as if it had been waiting for this moment all along. And when he opened his mouth to sing… Jaws dropped. The flawless tenor voice that rang from John’s throat blew past the hangover addled brains of even the most hardened stage hands and brought them slowly, steadily to their knees with the sheer power of it.

John lost himself in the music and just as suddenly as it began, the piece drew to a close. John was drained and disoriented. It felt like his soul had actually left his body and was now trying to force it’s way back down his throat. It was painful singing that way without being properly warmed up. He was trembling again, this time from exhaustion, as Mrs. Hudson thudded her way over to him, “It seems I’ll have time for you after all, John Watson. Welcome to the company.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Irene.

John let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as Mrs. Hudson thrust out her hand. He took it and the firmness of her grip surprised him. “Since you’ll be staying after all,” she said “I’ll have Stamford bring your bags to your quarters, for now I’d like you to go with Irene. She’ll give you a proper tour of this old pile.” At the mention of her name, a Brunette woman stepped forward and met John’s bewildered gaze. She was tall and willowy and had a certain… air about her. Her eyes were the same dark brown as the Chocolates he used to have sent to Mary before… John gave himself a quick mental shake and forced that thought to the back of his mind.

The strange woman beckoned him to follow her and turned on her heel, the crowd parting like the red sea to allow her to pass without having her voluminous black skirts stepped on. “So, “she said finally “you’re the man Stamford dug up to replace Anderson… not bad, I must say” John felt a blush creep up the back of his neck , “I-I…Thank you.” 

Irene made a non committal noise and gestured to the first door at her left, “This is the men’s dressing room, down the corridor is the women’s, and at the end of the hall at the top of the stair case is the men’s dormitories…. Anything else is simply impossible to show you right now unless there’s something specific you want to know.” Irene turned to look at him and he felt a queer sort of panic, “Well… I… I would like to know where I can find the violinist who played for me earlier. I’d like to thank him for saving my hide.”

Irene’s seemingly unflappable calm seemed to falter for a second and she smiled sadly, “Somethings are best left alone Mr. Watson. He is a hound in a pen full of foxes, ruthless and unrepentant.” She bowed her head slightly as she backed away from him and disappeared down a corridor that John hadn’t noticed before, leaving him to ponder yet another mystery.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild angst and a Mysterious note

John leaned against the wall and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, hard, hoping that the sensation would help him focus. It had been a very long and confusing day, “God, I need a drink.” he muttered. He wondered if Stamford had rifled through his things, if he had, his flask was probably gone. Stamford had always had a taste for good whiskey and shiny objects. John ruminated on this fact as he trudged up the stairs to find his bed, and started mentally composing a letter to Mary.

As he climbed the dark narrow stairs and composed a letter to his less than happy fiancee, memories tickled at the edge of his thoughts. Of the times when they’d been happy, before everything, before the accident that had almost torn her from his arms. Before he’d come around… Him. The stranger, the man John dared not to speak of. The image of his face hovered behind his eyes and John, deep inside his chest, felt anger boiling up like water in a kettle left too long on the stove. Hot, seething anger that left him feeling light headed. 

He stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall again, breathing deeply to push the anger back. The Dormitory smelled of male, damp, and mildew; John sighed and pushed himself away from the wall, “Welcome to your new home, Watson.” he murmured to himself, and trudged forward to find his bed.

Watson scanned the dimly lit room for a moment before he caught sight of his things piled haphazardly on a bed pushed against the far wall. He made his way over to it and carefully began to unpack and put his things away in the small set of drawers that had been provided. He smiled a little when he noticed his flask was unmolested, scooping it up out of the hodgepodge he unscrewed it and raised it to his lips, “Cheers, old man.” 

The whiskey burned his throat all the way down into the pit of his empty stomach where it settled like a stone. He grimaced at the feeling but had to admit, his head did feel a little clearer.

He replaced the cap and was about to hide the thing away in a drawer when he noticed it.

A note, written is slanted, elaborate script, adressed to a “Mr. John H. Watson, lead tenor of the London Opera.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Phantom appears.

John looked down at the note in his hands, the hand writing was an elaborate calligraphy sprawled onto expensive paper that certainly came from an over priced stationer. He shrugged and moved the note off of his pillow and on to the bedside table to read later. It had been a long day with one too many mysteries. As intriguing as the note was, the only thing he wanted to read right then was the back of his eyelids.

John finished putting away the rest of his few possessions and pondered taking another drink from his flask but thought better of it, if tomorrow was anything like today had been some self control was in order. Singing with a hangover was difficult, every sour note was excruciating and every good not sounded like it was coming from underwater. With a sigh, John collapsed on to the bed. He’d never had a head for mysteries and the longer he spent in London, the more mysteries seemed to be accumulating.

“Who was the violinist?” he wondered, and “Why had Irene seemed so frightened…or sad…or whatever that expression had been, when she spoke about it” John closed his eyes and let himself sink into the mattress, “My life is going to turn into a penny dreadful if this keeps up.” he grumbled. “One thing at a time, Watson, all you need is some money and as soon as you do that, you can take Mary and runaway to the seaside.” and with that, sleep closed in around him like warm black water.

——-

John slept soundly and the sound of the other men coming up to bed didn’t phase him. He never heard the whispers or the rutting that was happening in different beds. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d been to France after all… Most importantly, he didn’t see the shadowy figure of a man that crept towards his bed after the noises had died down. Nor did he hear the annoyed grunt that issued from him at the sight of the unread note, “I dislike being ignored, John.”

He was so deeply asleep, he didn’t even hear the drawer creak then the figured reached in to take his one photograph of Mary.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Lestrade...

John woke to the smell of food wafting up from the kitchens directly below the dormitories that he hadn’t noticed the night before. His stomach rumbled and his head reeled. It had been a long time since he’d slept that soundly. Between India and Mary sometimes he felt like he’d scarcely slept in the past year and a half. The tenor eased himself into a sitting position and hummed experimentally, testing his throat to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself with the unexpected “oomph” he’d put into his impromptu performance. Nodding to himself, satisfied that he’d be fine to tackle the day, he put his feet on the floor and scrubbed his face with his hands. He’d be in need of a shave before long, but there wasn’t time for that today.

Mentally running through his library of memorized pieces in case he had to perform on the spot, John was mostly oblivious to the other men and they mostly oblivious to them as they shuffled through their respective morning routines thinking about breakfast. It wasn’t until he looked in the top drawer of his small dresser in search of fresh under garments and saw that the photograph was missing that he even bothered to look up and take in the room.

It was shabbier than it had been the night before, but the day light had that effect on everything. There were men in varying states of undress, and John couldn’t help but notice they possessed varying states of attractiveness. He cleared his throat quietly, “Excuse me, gentleman,” at the sound of a new voice in the room several men halted and looked up, “have any of you seen a photograph of a woman wearing white? I thought I put it in my nightstand but… I could be mistaken.”  
Several of the men exchanged glances and a man with close cropped salt and pepper shaded hair chuckled darkly, “It seems the Phantom has a new mark, boys… and a pretty one too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friggin' in the Riggin'... shortly

John turned to look at the man who’d spoken looking carefully at the close cropped hear, weathered skin and calloused hands. A rigging man then. And likely former navy; “I’m sorry I don’t think I caught your name.” John stepped around his bed and started towards the man, he held out his hand and John took it, “Lestrade, Greg Lestrade.” John nodded at him, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Lestrade just shrugged, “That was quite a performance yesterday.”

John felt his brow furrow slightly, “I-I mean-Thank you.” Lestrade shrugged again and jerks his head towards the door, “Let’s get some breakfast.” John’s stomach growled in agreement and he followed the Rigging man out the door and down the stair case.

The man didn’t seem overly inclined to conversation which suited John’s attitude that morning, he had a long day a head of him and was in no mood for mysteries, “So, what’s the Phantom?”

Lestrade chuckled, “Not what, mate, who.” Lestrade stopped and turned to look at John, “The Phantom is a man, mate. Flesh and blood just like you an’ me an’ he’s brilliant.” John stood there gaping stupidly for a moment, “Brilliant, how?”

The other man turned and resumed plodding down the stairs, “You heard him play, mate. You tell me.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Molly. And some John/Lestrade flirting

John continued to followed Lestrade through the narrow, dim, passages his mind reeling as it struggled to take in the new information. The London Opera houses a secret virtuoso. John was intrigued but his brain was moving too sluggishly in the early morning to work properly. Lestrade's footsteps were silent and assured as he navigated them through the building. Watching him, John remembered his photograph and the, as yet, unknown thief who had taken his photograph of Mary.

"Lestrade?" the man in front of him grunted, "Earlier, you said the This Phantom fellow had a new mark..." John silently thanked the gods Lestrade couldn't see his face when he silently added "And a pretty one too." The taller man chortled, "Aye, the Phantom has an eye for talent. Every time some poor sod joins on that fits the bill well... he pursues them." John didn't like the sound of that, "Pursues them? How?" Lestrade stopped to face John again, "Look, mate, there was probably a letter yesterday, right? He likes to know things, like weaknesses, attachments, vices... If he's left you a letter, he likes the look of you. If he took something, he's probably displeased because you didn't read the bloody stupid note." Lestrade huffed and turned back around to walk forward a few yards to push open the kitchen door "For being brilliant he's a bloody child about being ignored." John just sighed inwardly, this was all too much to take in before a cup of coffee.

 

Greg jerked his head towards the door way so John would follow. The food all smelled delicious and his stomach growled impatiently. He swallowed his misgivings and followed the rigging man into the dining hall, the hushed chatter and clatter of plates felt homey. Performers and crew alike were rubbing their eyes like befuddled school children. Mrs. Hudson presided over the lot sipping tea from a delicate cup in stead of a mug, and dressed to the teeth in a sapphire blue gown with peacock feathers in her hair, a Queen in the center of her Empire.

John found himself seated between Anderson and Lestrade, and it was most uncomfortable. Anderson kept shooting him sidelong glances and Lestrade kept shooting lewd comments and Anderson on John's behalf.John ignored them both for the time being and applied himself whole heartedly to his breakfast carefully piling eggs, bacon, toast, and jam onto his plate and pour coffee into his mug. The coffee was horrid, bitter and coppery but the bacon was excellent. Salty and sweet, just the way he liked it.

When he stopped feeling as though his stomach was stuck to it's self he took some time to look up from his plate and take in the faces around him. The dining room was huge, with no discernible seating order. Performers and crew were scattered all over the place. Irene was on Mrs. Hudson's right, Stamford on her left, and down the table, next to Irene there was a small, woman with caramel colored hair. He nudged Lestrade and made a small gesture her direction, "Who's that? She looks familiar." Lestrade moved in closer and lowered her voice, "That's Molly Hooper, she's head of costumes... The only person to see the Phantom's face and live to tell about it."


	9. Chapter 9

John nodded and considered Molly Hooper carefully. She was petite, pale, and had soulful brown eyes. He mannerisms were small and contained as she spoke to Irene. The contrast was vivid and unmistakable. Where Irene was loud, often brash, and expansive, Molly was quiet, subdued, and thoughtful. He couldn’t hear her voice from where he sat, but he imagine it was soft.

Lestrade nudged his arm and John snapped out of his reverie, “Mate, you got a girl at home?” John shook his head, then blushed, “…I, yes… It’s her picture that’s missing from my dresser.” Lestrade gave him a knowing look and returned his attention to his plate for a moment. John idly prodded at a lump of jelly on his plate and contemplated eating another slice of bacon. He had a lot to catch up on and might not have time for lunch… To his right, Lestrade was refilling his coffee and Anderson was on his right yawning, looking like a sallow gargoyle… Yup, he thought, Bacon. He reached over and grabbed himself another slice and some toast for the rest of the jam on his plate… No sense in letting it go to waste.

Now that he was awake, John was more aware of the conversations going on around him. He could hear snatches of this and that. Mrs. Hudson giving marching orders to Stamford and Irene. Make up artists whining about brushes. Painters whinging about colors. Chorus talking about parts. And gossip, so much gossip. Whose sleeping with who, who sneaks of to Opium dens, it was a veritable penny dreadful at breakfast. He just sat back to take it all in, and in the din, he could pick out the most unpleasant voice he had ever heard. It was the voice he would put with Anderson’s face… Breathy, peevish, and genuinely annoying. Curious he turned his head to look for it.

Down at the opposite end of the table, he was a woman. She was darker skinned with a mane full of curly hair. Her face, John would have found pleasant had she not turned to sneer at him and screech, “Oi, what are you looking at, ya sodomite.” John felt his jaw drop a bit and Lestrade chuckled, “Meet your leading lady, Sally Donovan… good luck, mate.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sherlock

John shut his mouth with a faint snap and considered Donovan carefully over the rim of his coffee mug. She wasn’t unattractive, but John knew her type, he’d courted her type in his younger days before common sense had taken over. Sally Donovan was a Prima Donna. A not unattractive woman with technical ability, but no real talent hovering perpetually on the edge of employment. Struggling to stay relevant, and, from the sounds of the snickers, failing. Her vanity would be just the right pressure point… but where to land the blow…

He regarded her carefully conscious of the stares burning into his back, even the most talkative members of the company had quieted down to listen in. Donovan was staring to look perturbed, “Well, what is it then?” her nostril flared and she rattled her fingers on the table top. John took a deliberate sip of coffee and swallowed before he answered, “Nothing love, just counting all your gray hairs.” Donovan gasped, “I do not have any gray in my hair thank you!” John simply smiled and set the coffee mug down, “I suppose you’re right, it must just be left over dye…” Sally flushed, she’s been painted into a corner and she knew it. The table knew it too, she was in her mid 30’s and fading fast. They tittered and John returned his attention to his now cold bacon. He took another bite, and was only vaguely aware when Sally left in a huff with Anderson scurrying after. Even cold the bacon was still delicious.

Lestrade thumped him on the back genially, “C’mon mate, let’s get out of here before she thinks of a comeback.” Watson nodded around a mouthful and pushed away from the table to follow the taller man.

Lestrade lead him to the backstage door and smiled, “You’ve seen the rest of the old pile, now let me show you MY little corner of the world.” and he pushed the door open to duck inside. The gloom beyond seemed infinite and mildly foreboding, but John shoved the feeling out of the way and followed. He heard footsteps on the stairs and followed blindly, warily, to avoid a fall.

It wasn’t until he reached the catwalks aloft, that he realized the man he followed had not been Lestrade


	11. Chapter 11

“I don’t like being ignored, John Watson.” John froze and the man he had followed stepped into a narrow shaft of light. He couldn’t see a face but John could make out the outline of a muscular chest and narrow shoulders. There was a rumble of silky laughter and John felt his knees tremble, “You haven’t even read my welcome letter.” John felt a hand reach out and caress his face, it was reassuringly warm and solid. John felt a jolt of electricity and heat flooded his face. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his brain clouded over, he wanted to ask a question, it was right there on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t seem to make it come.

The man chuckled again, “Allow me to introduce myself, I am, as the rabble here named me, The Phantom.” The man caressed the stubble that covered John’s jaw and sighed. “That fool Lestrade’s realized you’re not behind him by now, I’ll be in touch soon.” Before John could react to the man touching him again, he was gone and John was left Trembling at the top of the stairs.

The world came back to him in a rush and he heard Lestrade’s thudding footsteps in front of him, “Watson! Good god, man I thought you were behind me the whole time, what happened!” It took a moment and John was dimly aware that Lestrade was shaking him by the time he found his tongue again, “I- I met the Phantom.”


End file.
